Plastic Flowers
by Bella Ragazza
Summary: An anniversary of nothing at all.


Plastic Flowers  
  
  
  
An anniversary of nothing at all.  
  
  
  
  
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They sat across from one another, separated by a length of brocade golden tablecloth and a generous plastic flower arrangement. The sun was just about to make it's daily descent, perched on the edge of the horizon and flanked by lovely hues of fiery orange which reflected off the top of the water. He perused the menu, talking to himself over the entrees and the choice of vegetable. She watched him, watched him mumble over the steamed broccoli and fixed a pretty smile on her face as the handsome waiter glided up to their table, pad and pen in tow.  
  
  
"What will it be tonight?" He asked politely, and she could feel his gaze upon her. Turning away embarrassed she opted for a simple chicken dish. Jotting that and her drink order down he turned to the grim man, who set the menu down.  
  
  
"The vegetable dish...better be fresh." He fixed the waiter with a stony glare, and the exasperated woman held her head in shame as the young boy nodded hastily, collecting their menus and departing for the kitchen. She turned to him, her petulant husband that never smiled, never looked happier than a scowl. The new dress was smashing, a fresh floral print in soft blues, the blond hair shiny and down. He hadn't noticed, but she was used to the nonexistent compliments, the non-verbal replies. Pillow talk that consisted of "won't you shut off the light please." "thank you."   
  
  
Their marriage was those flowers, artificial and meant to only be a display, nothing could grow from what was not alive. They were dead, doomed to spend their lives never measuring up to the real flowers, the ones that leaned towards the sun's warmth.   
  
  
"Happy anniversary." She tried, setting her glass of wine down to take his hand. It felt ice cold and callused, and inwardly she shuddered. The young man returned with their food, slipping the plates beneath their joined hands with practiced ease. He averted his eyes in good taste, obviously used to this sort of thing.  
  
  
He looked up wearily, as if expecting to see someone else. "Yes." He said shortly, withdrawing his hand to refill his wine glass, which was three quarters full to begin with. She wanted to smack him, swipe the food clean off the table top and lean across it, grabbing his collar in her hand and just twist...twist hard until all the rage of eight years was gone. The restaurant was filled, filled with real flowers, dining and touching, brushing limbs and secret smiles.   
  
  
"Enjoying everything?" One more try.   
  
  
"Broccoli's bland. Go figure." He stated gruffly, pushing the dish away and standing up. "Be right back." He walked towards the waterfront and she knew he was going to have a smoke, smoke and think of HER on their anniversary. Eight fucking years and he still had her picture in his drawer, she had discovered it one evening in his nighttable while fumbling for a hairbrush. She had dropped it, disgusted he would keep her ghost so near their marriage bed. That was the end of all physical intimacy from her end, and since there was minimal from his side of the camp this worked out just fine for them both. To think, she had played the role of devoted wife all these years, only to be cast aside as lesser seconds. To be honest with herself she knew even when they did make love, his blue eyes were far far away. His hands on HER skin, raking through HER hair. Once as he cried out his climax she could have sworn the name his lips mouthed was not her own. Faithless pig.  
  
  
"Anything I can get you?" The waiter had returned, looking around furtively for her dinner companion before looking relieved.   
  
  
"Do you like flowers?" She blurted, and watched as his handsome face digested this. Blond hair dropped lazily over his eyes, which were the honest green of summertime foliage.   
  
  
"Well...yeah. Sure, doesn't everyone?" He tried, smile perfectly amicable and white teeth displayed. She was sure he was courting some lovely young girl, late teens, fresh and pure. At twenty four her face was still ageless, but she was tainted with spending her life with a grieving man, a walking dead man that had lost all spark and vim. A shell of a person, he carried her memory everywhere with his drooping stature, the black rings under his eyes.  
  
  
"You'd be surprised." She spoke dryly, and he looked at her, and to the silent man who leaned over the railing, staring at the ripples of the water as if looking for desperate answers. He watched her, awestruck at her classic beauty, a face you would only think to see on glossy print on a storeshelf. She looked very much the woman who would come to these type of places often, all that shimmery honey hair and the flawless face glowing soft with the candlelight and setting sun.   
  
  
"You could do better, you know." He rather whispered this and watched her bite back tears, twisting the substantial diamond and platinum band to shimmer with the last streaks of sunlight. Slowly, she smoothed the expensive silk dress, wrapping the blue shawl around her shoulders tightly. The ring slipped off the slender finger and slid to the bottom of the champagne glass, bringing forth bubbles to the surface of the fine crystal. Wordlessly her hands fumbled with her beaded clutch, and a wad of bills was brought forth and pressed into the boy's hands.  
  
  
His mouth opened, on the verge of protest, but he silenced with a shake of the proudly poised head.  
  
"That is the nicest thing anyone has said to me in eight years." The soft soprano was choked with raw emotion, and he watched her walk away from the lights of the Japanese paper lanterns and the hum of chatter. Long, perfect legs walked surely and confident in strappy heels, and into the darkness.  
  
  
Admiration shone in those bezel set emerald eyes as he cleared the plates quickly into the plastic basin, wadded up napkins and the like until the cloth was good as new. The glass of flat champagne was left pointedly in the center, and as he snuffed out the candle the table with the quaint little umbrella perched overhead was bathed in shadows.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Fin.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Endnote: This was on a whim. I'm really not going to comment, I'm sure y'all as readers and writers can concur what it's all about. Short n sweet, just taking a break from my other fic. Read and review, I love comments and the like. ACK! 'Fore I forget, the waiter is NOT Seifer...it's just a stranger. I was afraid people were goin to start making weirdo assumptions. 


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